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Romano is my dad. I’ve talked about him before, mostly to point out that his criticism of other people’s cooking is not what you’d call gentle or sensitive or, well, nice. He once made eight-year-old me cry when he told me my risotto was a gluggy, gluey, inedible mess. You see, Romano lives his life by a strict set of edicts which govern all aspects of his dietary intake. You could call it Romano’s Code, and he expects others to understand and respect his Code. There’s Romano’s way – salads should always be dressed with olive oil and vinegar not abhorrent concoctions that involve mayonnaise or, God forbid, yoghurt – and then there’s the wrong way.

Romano’s Code doesn’t just cover cooking, it extends to dining etiquette as well. If, for example, you find yourself eating dinner at Casa Cammarano and think it is OK to just pluck a few random grapes from the requisite fruit platter that appears after every meal, you are sadly mistaken. The right thing to do is to take a small bunch, stalks and all. Romano doesn’t care if you’re a daughter, a cousin, a new boyfriend or the parish priest, commit this sin and you’ll hear about it loudly and for a long time afterwards. You might be embarrassed, but then Romano believes you should be.

So when I came across this 1950 recipe for “Noodles” with a variation that called for the adding of “a teaspoon of meat extract or Vegemite” in Wynwode Reid’s New Australian Cookery Illustrated, I knew, in the name of Italo-Australian cuisine, it had to be tried. And I also knew the person to try it should be Romano.

Note the Vegemite variation under “Savory Noodles”.

I set about making it happen. In a bid not to prejudice his palate, I decided I would keep the Vegemite a secret. Romano, like most Italians, is not a fan of the inky black substance – he’s more a Nutella man. I’m sure if I told him I’d taken what has been the staple of his ancestors for centuries, and mixed in a spoonful of Vegemite, he would see it as a betrayal of his culture and, worse, a clear contravention of Romano’s Code.

Following the instructions proved to be as simple as mapping the human genome, but somehow I managed it. In the middle of the task mum rang to say Nonna was expecting me for dinner. Perfect, I thought, ignoring the line that said “Leave at least 24 hours to dry”, dad can try the noodles then.

Unfortunately, by the time my ribbons of latte-coloured pasta had been transported in their plastic box from the city to Spotswood they had turned into mounds of stuck-together dough. “Not you worry,” said Nonna and we set about re-rolling the pasta into little twists.

Romano entered and pointed out that they looked like something the dog did.

This was not a good start. But cooked and covered in Nonna’s sauce, Romano didn’t immediately turn up his considerably-sized nose.

He looked at it closely. He looked at me. “What’s in it?,” he asked

“Just try it”, I urged

He smelt it.

“You used chestnut flour.”

“Just try it.”

“You used wholemeal flour,” he accused.

“Would you just try it?”

He took a little. He chewed it thoughtfully. He took a little more.

“Is it alright?” I asked timidly.

“Hmm yeah, alright. Not bad. Not great. Not bad. Now, what’s in it?”

“Vegemite!” I proclaimed triumphantly, ready for his face to turn from apathetic to angry.

“Oh, OK, yeah, it just makes it salty. It’s alright.”

“What do you mean? Isn’t it disgusting to put Vegemite in pasta? Aren’t you appalled? It’s what Australiani put in their Bolognese, dad. It’s wrong, isn’t it? I thought you would think it was wrong!”

“No, it’s alright. It’s fine.”

So, there you have it, when Romano ate Vegemite pasta, there was no yelling of cultures double-crossed, of codes violated, of anything really. It just didn’t seem right – who was this man? This wasn’t how my father should react to Vegemite pasta, of all things. Had I slipped into a parallel future, an alternate 1985 of sorts? Where was the outrage? What did I have to do to provoke that? And then grapes presented themselves for dessert. I plucked a few from the stalks, and Romano did his thing. Everything was right in the world again.

By the time I get to Nonna’s house, she’s already got the sugar and almonds out, the scales are on the table and she’s set up a make-shift stove which might be the perfect height for 5 foot nothing Nonna, but is not-so-perfect for 5 foot 10 me:

I decide it’s pointless to complain about the back-breaking height of the stove – if that’s how Nonna wants it, that’s how it will stay – and instead ask where everyone is.

“Your Uncle Sam’s in bed, little Tony’s got work to do, and your Mum and Dad went to buy a Christmas tree. When there’s work to be done (she sighs)…you know your Mother has never been interested in making the torrone, never. To eat it, yes, to take it to the shop, yes, but to make it? No no no no….”

Poor Lila. She does the most for Nonna but being the first-born female in an Italian household means you’re expected to do everything, all the time, and if you’re waiting to be thanked for it? Well there’s more chance of me not being asked when I’m having grandchildren…

Nonna mumbles some more about my mother’s lack of interest in all things culinary and tells me to weigh out 800 grams of sugar and 1 kilo of almonds.

Really? Weigh stuff? Nonna never weighs anything and I call her on it.

“What happened to using your ‘occhio’ Nonna? You say your eye is the best measurement for everything. All you need is your hands and your eyes and you can cook?”

“Yes, that’s true but no, not for this. Weigh it.”

The sugar goes in the pan over low heat. Nonna watches it and explains we are waiting for it to turn to honey. Not sure how sugar can turn into honey but, again, it’s not an argument worth having. I get on top of a chair and take the following pictures, and then I get in trouble.

“Get off the chair! What are you doing? You’ll fall! And put your shoes on! Why aren’t your shoes on? Why do you never wear shoes?”

Nonna has this thing about us being barefoot. I think she would be less offended if we were naked. No, actually, I know that’s not true – once I wore skin-coloured tracksuit pants (don’t ask why, I don’t know) and my brother had some friends around and Nonna came in and lost it, like really lost it:

“How can you be naked IN FRONT OF BOYS? What is wrong with you? Scustamata che non sei altra (which kind of means something like you’re the sluttiest of slutbag women to ever walk the earth)!”

“But Nonna, they’re pants, look!”

“Ah, hmm, yes, they are, but PUT YOUR SHOES ON!!!!”

Lost in memories of flesh-toned pants past, Nonna points out that the sugar has in fact turned into a honey-like syrup, so we should now add the almonds. This is where the fun starts and where you see an 89-year-old woman who only 10 minutes before said “I hurt so much, I can’t move AT ALL! Old age is awful, my granddaughter, awful!” stir the sticky mess of almonds and sugar like it’s whipped cream. Sure, she does some Monica Seles-style grunting towards the end, but I have to practically bribe her to take the wooden spoon away from her.

About half-way through the constant stirring, Nonna adds lemon juice. It sizzles and bubbles and splatters. I move away to avoid getting burnt. Nonna just keeps on stirring. I guess if you lived in Sicily through World War II, you’re probably not scared of hot lemon juice…

Finally it’s time to tip the molten brown sugar coated almonds out on to an oiled marble slab. I don’t know how Nonna knows it’s ready. I ask her and she says she knows it’s ready, because it’s ready.

Getting the almonds out is not so easy, as everything’s sticking to everything and it’s hot as Hades. That does not stop Nonna. She uses a range of wooden spoons, palates and a rolling pin to get it how she wants it. Then she dips her hands in cold water and pats it down. I try to mimic her, but my hands actually feel heat, so I give up.

After a sprinkling of not-so-traditional hundreds and thousands, it’s time to cut the thing. Luckily, reinforcements arrive in the form of Mum and Dad, or Lila and Romano. Lila scoffs some stray almonds, leaving the evidence in plain view:

I tell her what Nonna said about her lack of help, she sighs and starts the next lot of torrone. I think she’s used to it. Dad meanwhile takes some very menacing knives off Nonna and starts cutting the torrone into pieces. This requires a fair degree of stamina, and as we have not had coffee for at least an hour, Nonna decides that’s what she should be doing.

Once all the torrone is cut, we make a second lot which is slightly different because it’s made with sesame seeds and assorted nuts. Mum and Dad take the lead this time, but Nonna is always watching, always ready to jump in, always giving instruction and always quick to point out what we’re doing wrong. At one point, she asks no one in particular:

“How on earth are you going to make the torrone when I’m gone?”

The answer to which is, of course, I have no idea.

Nonna’s Torrone

You will need a marble slab and hands that are not sensitive to heat. It’s also a good idea to share the stirring with a number of people, as it is heavy, hot and difficult.

Ingredients

800g sugar

1kg whole almonds, blanched

Juice of 1/2 lemon

Hundreds and thousands

A few sheets of rice paper

Oil the marble slab and have a bowl of cold water for you to dip your hands in nearby.

Place the sugar in a large saucepan and stir over low heat until sugar has dissolved.

Add almonds. Stir with a wooden spoon until the almonds start to stick together.

Add the lemon juice and continue stirring until the almonds and sugar are golden brown in colour.

Turn the mixture out onto the marble slab. Dip the palms of your hands in the cold water and then, using your hands, shape the mixture into a square slab. You can also use a rolling pin and wooden spoon

While the mixture is still warm, sprinkle hundreds and thousands over it, cut the slab into slices, and then into small squares. Place on plates lined with rice paper.

So you know how TV networks call repeats of TV shows encores? Well, I’m taking a leaf out of their book and posting a story I wrote for Taste.com.au a few years ago about what an Italian Christmas is like in the little-known Italian town of Melbourne. Consider it a prequel to Nonna’s torrone recipe which we were meant to make together this week, but Nonna hasn’t been feeling the best, so it’s on next week, with a post to follow. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy what will be either very familiar or completely foreign, depending on the amount of wog blood coursing through your veins:

Roast turkey, mince pies and shortbread. This is what a foreign Christmas sounds like to me. The same goes for fruitcake, stuffing, pudding and Christmas crackers. Totally exotic.

My unfamiliarity with all things Anglo-Christmas is my family’s fault. My mother is Sicilian, my father is from near Naples, and I was born in Melbourne, but if what you eat is who you are then I am definitely Italian. No question. Or, to be more precise, southern Italian.

Like all good southern Italians, our Christmas meal starts with homemade pasta. In my house, these take the form of panzerotti. Now, the thing about pasta and Italians is that one man’s panzerotti are another man’s crespelle. By this I mean that depending on where you are in the tall skinny boot known as Italy, pasta often has the same name but can be something quite different. In casa Cammarano, however, the panzerotti are made by Romano, my father, and are precise little half moons of pasta filled with ricotta, parmesan and parsley, sealed with a fork, boiled in water, and served with a fresh tomato sauce. Perfect.

However, occasionally people who are not my father get involved in the making of perfection, and things inevitably go wrong. These people, Romano’s children and his mother-in-law, in particular, don’t particularly care if a complete circle has not been cut out of the pasta, making it impossible to create a proper half moon. Or they are sloppy in the way they seal the panzerotti, meaning when you cook them, they burst open and their ricotta filling is lost to the raging boiling water around them.

Sometimes, crazy people, like my mother, put spinach in the filling and this not a happy Romano does make. He feels that spinach compromises the clean flavours of the fresh ricotta and I think he is right. (By the way, never ever buy the ricotta that comes in the containers at the supermarket – this is a criminal act in Romano’s book.)

While panzerotti were and still are the specialty of Mr Cammarano, my mother Lidia, or, as she hates to be called, Lil, always makes ricotta cake. The recipe for this cake goes way, way back to an ancient and sacred Italian cookbook that no one can remember the name of and has since been lost. But the cake lives on in the memory of Lidia, who will not share the recipe because it’s hers and hers alone. Even though she claims the book has been lost, I think she destroyed it to protect her ricotta cake-making monopoly.

But I digress. It is a delicious cake, no doubt about it. The pastry crust is short and contains orange zest. My mother doesn’t believe in making her own pastry – she outsources it to my grandmother, who brings it to her house already rested and rolled out, in a glass Pyrex dish with crinkled edges. The filling is fresh ricotta, cinnamon, eggs and caster sugar. There might be more, but Lil isn’t telling. It’s baked in the oven and then dusted with icing sugar. We eat it during the entire Christmas period – it is the fuel that keeps us going and propels us through everything festive from gift buying expeditions and loud card games to visiting friends and midnight mass.

Whilst it is starting to sound like ricotta is at the centre of my Italian Christmas, it’s not. Torrone is. Torrone is the Italian word for nougat but my grandmother’s version is not the snowy white version you are probably most familiar with. This one is made mostly of almonds and sugar, and is caramel brown in colour. To make it you must have the strength of 21 men, four oxen and three donkeys. Your hands must be capable of withstanding nuclear plant meltdown levels of heat. Or you must be my 89-year-old grandmother. She makes it, and has always made it, by herself. True, these days, she lets me or my mother occasionally have a turn at stirring it, but she waits impatiently as you try to churn the spoon, her eagle eyes watching for any signs of fatigue. It doesn’t take long – and as soon as you pause, she’s taken the spoon and is back at it again, and you’re left wondering why you’re standing exhausted while a woman four times your age, and a quarter of your size, is moving nearly 2 kilos of sticky, heavy sugar and almonds.

It might seem a good idea, at this point, to give you some of the recipes for these tasty Christmas treats. However, my father would not give his recipe for panzarotti, on the grounds that you will not make them as well as he does. My mother would not give her recipe for ricotta cake, for the reasons stated above. My nonna, however, has provided her recipe for torrone. Because nonna is good and kind and just, and knows that as there’s no way you’re as strong as she is, trying to make it will probably kill you anyway… so look out for Nonna Maria’s Torrone in the next post (complete with pictures, I promise)! In the meantime, tell me if this Christmas is anything like yours?

In my email inbox this morning, I found this review, or really preview, of Neil Perry’s latest restaurant, Rosetta at Crown Casino. It contained the line:

“[Neil] Perry is auditioning to be your new nonna”

Neil Perry on the cover of Good Weekend.

My nonna (with my niece Isabella).

When I stopped laughing, I started thinking about what Neil Perry would actually have to do at his new Italian restaurant to be a serious contender for the role of my nonna.

To start, he would have to triple the size of the servings, nah quadruple. During the meal, he would have to add more food to my plate, without asking, and if I complain, he will say that I am too skinny and I need to eat. When I complain that there is too much food, he will need to bring up the war and the starving children in Africa.

He would need to ask me about my husband, if I have been cooking for him and when I am having children. Also, why haven’t I had children yet? He will not sit down and eat with me, he will be too busy getting the next course. Somehow, however, he will still have time to say that people don’t have as much respect as they used to, and that I better lock my doors properly. He will say “occhio vivo e smart”, which is nonna talk for be careful because the streets are full of murderers and thieves, at least three times.

Before the meal is over he will want to know when I am coming back and what I want to eat when I return. It goes without saying that he will not accept money for the food, and in fact, if he wants to be a real nonna he will slip me $100 and tell me to buy something special for myself. Then, even though he is 89, he will insist on washing all the dishes himself while I drink a coffee from the Moka stovetop espresso. Also, he will send me home with a week’s worth of sauce, a bunch of parsley and ten lemons from the garden, as well as a packet of coffee a comare gave him that he thinks I should have.

If, somehow, Neil Perry manages to pass the audition to become my nonna, there is one other issue – his hair. The ponytail would have to go, because nonnas don’t do ponytails, they do sets, blue rinses and finger waves. And I really can’t imagine Neil Perry going there… though if he wants to, my mum’s a hairdresser…

When I tell nonna that most artichoke recipes call for a lot of the leaves to be cut off, she looks disgusted.

“It’s waste. Waste! People have too much money! They didn’t live through the war. We ate potato peelings. The peelings of the potatoes!”

Nonna is showing me how to make artichokes – carciofi – the way she has always made them, with breadcrumbs, parsley, garlic and not much else. Nothing, well nearly nothing, gets cut off and thrown away.

“Just the top of the leaves where they are really hard. And the stalks. Though you can cook them too. Everything else is good. What do you think? We’re Americani! No.”

—

As I ponder nonna’s obsession with Americans and wealth – not a day goes by where she doesn’t mention their wasteful, extravagant ways – she shows me how to open up the artichoke with my hands and sprinkle a mix of breadcrumbs, parsley, salt, pepper and parmesan into each one.

As always, the question of quantity comes up. How much breadcrumbs, parsley, salt, pepper and parmesan?

“Tania, you always ask this question. You need as much as the artichoke needs. Use your eyes in your head to see!”

“But nonna, I can’t write that in the recipe, people won’t understand. And then they’ll ring me and abuse me for giving them a recipe that doesn’t work.”

“Pah! Just write ‘It needs as much as it needs’. They will understand. What are they? Stupid! Basta with this question! No more ‘how much’, ‘how much’…”

—

Nonna moves the stuffed artichokes into a pan. She apologises.

“Sorry, sorry, see there should be seven artichokes, because seven fit. Five is no good. Too much space.”

Nonna is a serial apologiser. It’s like her diabetes – a disease. She always does it in English too. It is never “mi dispiace” but always “sorry, sorry”.

I take a photo. Nonna isn’t happy with the five artichokes in the picture. She grabs two stalks and puts them in the empty spaces.

“Better… but if only I had seven. Sorry, sorry.”

—

As browned fried garlic is poured over the carciofi and they are put on the stove with a little water to cook, I notice how much else nonna has made for dinner.

She has already prepared chicory and roasted red peppers, the fish is in the oven and broccoli soup is bubbling away.

She tells me she is going to put ravioli in the soup. I gasp. My father will have (another) heart attack. Ravioli, in the world of Romano Cammarano, does not go in broccoli soup. It will be a controversial move on nonna’s part.

But she likes “fantasia”- imagination – in cooking. And she will do whatever the “fantasia” tells her. It’s telling her to put the ravioli in the soup. I warn her about Romano. She shrugs and puts the ravioli in the soup.

Later, predictably, Romano Cammarano turns his considerable Roman nose up at the dish. But nonna has been true to the “fantasia”. That is what is important here.

—

The carciofi are cooked when a leaf comes clean out of it and you can easily scrap away the breadcrumby, artichokey goodness at the bottom of each leaf with your teeth. You do this over and over, making a pile of discarded leaves on your plate, till you get to the payoff for all your hard work – the heart.

Some unscrupulous members of your family might try to steal the heart. This is an offence and should be dealt with severely.

—

Carciofi cooked like this might be the last bastion of true wogginess.

I notice funny looks from my colleagues when I eat them at my desk, piling up the waste paper basket with artichoke leaves. I guess I will never work at BHP.

Also, when non-Italians eat at nonnas, they never touch the carciofi. Pasta, wild greens, eggplants, sausages, salami, prosciutto? Yes, please, no problem at all. But carciofi? No, thank you, I’m very full, and the thought of all that teeth scrapping and greasy fingers is just too, well, woggy I guess…

This, however, is not a problem. It just means there’s more carciofi for me.

—

Nonna’s carciofi

5 artichokes, hard leaves at the top trimmed and stalks cut off

2 cups of breadcrumbs, more or less

A handful of parsley, chopped

A handful of Parmesan, grated

Salt and pepper

3 cloves of garlic, sliced

Olive oil

Mix together the breadcrumbs, parsley, Parmesan and salt and pepper.

Open up the leaves of the artichokes with your hands and sprinkle the breadcrumb mixture over them, making sure you get plenty between the leaves. Place the artichokes in a snug pan with high sides.

In the meantime, fry the garlic in a considerable amount of olive oil till it browned. Pour the garlic oil over the artichokes.

Put the pan over medium heat and pour in enough water to come half-way up the sides of the artichokes, add a pinch of salt, and half cover with a lid.

Cook until a leaf comes away easily from the artichoke. It should take about 45 minutes. Or less. Or more. Don’t let the water dry out – add more if you need it. And remove the lid to dry them out if there’s too much water.

Trying to get quantities when writing down nonna’s recipes is like trying to get a bank to waiver its account keeping fees.

“First, I put the tomatoes in the pot,” she demonstrates.

“How many?”I ask.

“2, 6, 8….you decide, how many you like.”

“And then the carrots, the onions.”

“Ok, how many carrots then, and onions?

“1,2,3… you decide, how many you like.”

I bet you can guess how the rest of the conversation went…

—

I am told to cut the vegetables. I stupidly ask how she would like them. Diced? Quartered? The answer, you can probably guess, is however I like.

I start to brunoise the onion, the way I had been taught at cooking school.

Nonna looks over.

“What are you doing?”

“Chopping the onions like the chef taught me at school, nonna”

She stops what she’s doing to watch .

At that moment the nearly blunt knife doesn’t make a clean cut and the slippery onion falls from my fingers to the floor.

“Hmph,” says nonna. “I never went to school”

—

“What’s the sauce called Nonna?”

“Salsa Siciliana.”

“But it’s not very Siciliana.”

“Of course it is. I used to make it in Sicily so it’s Siciliana. But you can call it what you like…. salsa Abruzzese, salsa Napoletana, salsa Toscana….”

“What about salsa Australiana”

“Si, call it salsa Australiana, I like it.”

—

Next to the eggplants preserved in oil and under a bottle of Magnesia San Pellegrino, I spy a jar of Vegemite in nonna’s cupboard. I am shocked. I know of no Italian-born individual who can stomach the stuff. I decide to investigate.

“Nonna, do you eat Vegemite?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Oh no. It’s for (my second cousin) Tony. He ate it on toast every day for a year but then he stopped. He doesn’t come much anymore,” she sighs.

“Do you want it? Take it, take it, ” she urges.

“No, no, so you’ve never, ever tasted it?”

“No,” she says resolutely.

A few minutes pass and we chop in silence.

She pauses for a minute.

“Is it good?”

“The Vegemite?”

“Yes”

“No not really”

“Oh, ok, it’s good I don’t eat it then huh?”

—

Zio Sam, nonna’s brother, comes home. Noticing the tomatoes we are cooking, he tells me at the grocer where he works they cost $5 a kilo. Hydroponics $10.

“Is that cheap or expensive, “ I ask ignorantly.

“Expensive! $2.99 or $3.65 not $5. They musta been scare, very scare.”

I guess he means scarce but the price is sort of scary, when you think about it.

—

Nonna takes a break from cooking to check on her faithful companion, Fifi the dog.

“Why haven’t you eaten your pasta Fifi? Whatsamatter? Do you think we’re Americans here? Is that what you think?”

Fifi drops her head and continues to ignore Nonna.

“No respect,” says nonna exasperated “But what can you do?”

—

Nonna’s fresh tomato sauce

Serves about 15 people

18 ripe tomatoes

1 stalk of celery, peeled and roughly chopped

2 small carrots, peeled and roughly chopped

1 small red onion, peeled and chopped

1 small white onion, peeled and chopped

2 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed

A few basil leaves

Pinch of bicarbonate of soda

Olive oil

Salt

Wash the tomatoes and cut out the core. Score them with a deep cross. Place in a large saucepan.

Over the tomatoes pour a generous amount of olive oil and a sprinkling of salt.

Add celery, carrots, onions, garlic, basil and bicab. Turn the heat to medium-low and allow to cook, stirring occasionally, until the tomatoes have completely broken down.

Pass through a mouli and discard the solids. Serve immediately with pasta or bottle to put in the freezer.